


the power of family (that is, a loving one)

by girl412



Series: assigned ineffable at birth [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Trans Character, crowley uses he/him pronouns in this one, implied dysfunctional families, lots of nervousness and anticipation in this one... hoo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 00:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/girl412
Summary: At 9:30AM, exactly, Warlock and Crowley have scheduled to meet.These are the events leading up to that moment.





	the power of family (that is, a loving one)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, it's been almost a month (& im sorry!) but this is the longest installment so far, so i hope that makes up for it at least a little. i feel like this, from a format perspective, and a style of writing perspective, is a little different from the previous pieces. that said: it is what it is, so enjoy! 
> 
> few content-related notes: warlock uses gender neutral pronouns for crowley when discussing the picture he's painted of nanny ash @ first, but once he trusts the person he's talking to a little more he tells her about crowley's gender & pronouns. this isn't deliberate misgendering as much as being unsure how to explain things to your cis friends and figuring that out as they go along. 
> 
> there's also a point when crowley refers to himself using the wrong pronouns when talking to aziraphale, but that's partially because he's referring to lilith ashtoreth as opposed to anthony crowley, and also because sometimes being nonbinary really Is like that (source: your nonbinary writer.) 
> 
> what i'm trying to say is, i've put a lot of thought into how gender is talked about in this fic (in this entire series really) so if anything makes you uncomfortable or confused abt my intention/ what it means, feel free to bring it up with me & discuss. 
> 
> ok. onwards with the fic itself!

Warlock adjusts his collar, trying to be discreet. He’s standing by the painting, which is on the wall. He got here at 8, as he was supposed to, and he’ll be here until 9:30 in the morning. one and a half hours isn’t too bad, really, but it’s the small talk that gets on his nerves. Day 1 of the exhibition is meant to have an element of interactiveness to it, and people keep coming up to him and asking him questions. He’s had practice, though, from political rallies. Besides, the monotony takes his mind away from the nervousness, because he’d told Nanny Crowley (?? Warlock still wasn’t sure what to call his demon caretaker) to meet him at 9:30, and until then all his senses are in overdrive. 

His phone pings with a new message, and after checking that there’s nobody in the vicinity in urgent need of talking to him, he takes it out of his pocket. It’s Crowley, as he’d expected. 

_Dropping in @ bakery down the street. want anything? _

Warlock frowns, thinking. _what do they have? _

_usual baked goods, but i think their hot chocolates are a speciality _

_they’ve got this little apple cinnamon tart thing i think you’d like _

_or at least: you would have liked a few years ago _

The messages are cautious, careful, trying not to overstep. Warlock appreciates them more than he can express; appreciates the genuine thoughtfulness, the fact that Nanny had _remembered_. 

_that sounds perfect, _he sends. _thank you._

-

Crowley had been nervous, too. The morning had found him feeling more masculine than he had in a while, and he’d ended up spending a solid 20 minutes holding his Nanny Ashtoreth outfit in his arms and trying to quash the dysphoria he couldn’t help feeling. _This is for Warlock, _he’d told himself. _If wearing a dress and being perceived as female makes Warlock comfortable and at ease, you’ll do it. Warlock’s needs must come first. _

Aziraphale had found him like that, possibly 5 minutes away from a panic attack. 

“Crowley,” he’d said, gently taking the clothes away from his husband’s arms and putting them on the bed. “You don’t need to make yourself uncomfortable for Warlock. He loves you as you are, you know.” The _as do I _remained unsaid, but it was one of those things that Crowley heard in his tone of voice, all the same.

Aziraphale had gone through his suitcase, and tossed him the skinny jeans, black shirt and warm scarf that he usually wore. 

“He knows you go by Anthony Crowley now,” Aziraphale had reminded him, watching as Crowley stared at the clothes in his arms as if he’d never seen them before. “You don’t _need _to be Lilith Ashtoreth right now if you don’t want to.” 

Crowley had made some sort of grunt in response, and shrugged. He hadn’t said thank you, but he knew that Aziraphale could feel it. 

Just then, Crowley’s in the bakery. He has a lot of time on his hands, which is fine. He’s got an episode of The Penumbra Podcast to listen to, after all.

-

It’s 8:50. Warlock’s moved a little from his original position next to his painting, to the middle of the corridor. Across him, a girl named Sally who’s the same age as him, give or take a few months, is standing next to her painting, which won second place. It’s a watercolour painting of her and her twin sister, and it’s abstract enough that it could inspire poetry. There’s a link between them, so that they look like they share an umbilical cord, and at the same time, their positions are such that they look like they’re looking in a mirror, as if it’s the same girl twice over. Maybe it is. But there’s difference too, in the way they dress, their expressions, their body language. Warlock isn’t sure how he can read all of this from one painting, but it’s very clear to him as he stares at it.

He tells Sally, “You should’ve won First Place.” 

She raises an auburn eyebrow. “Bro, are you kidding? Look at your painting, like, seriously. Oil paint and everything! No way I could beat that.” 

Warlock gives her an incredulous look, and begins to tell her what her painting looks like to him, and she hums in acknowledgement.

“So,” he concludes. “It’s pretty intricate.” 

“Metaphorical, sure thing,” she says, casually. “But yours… your painting looks really _loved_. It’s so obvious that you put care into portraying the woman in your picture, and besides that, she looks… really alive. Like, you’ve embodied her character through her body language, and that’s something all artists aspire to do. I mean, I try, you know, but I’m not much good at that, hence the metaphorical abstractness of _this_. But you… this lady, who’s she, your aunt? Well, she looks like the sort of person who’d be strict, maybe, or even cold, if she didn’t like you, but there’s so much love and warmth in her body language. As in, you know she could probably kick ass if she wanted to, but she’d never kick _your _ass, yeah?” 

Warlock lets out a surprised breath. “That’s exactly what they’re like, yes. They’re my childhood Nanny.” 

“Oh,” Sally says, on an exhale. “What about your parents?” 

Warlock frowns, defensive. “What about them?” 

“They here today?” 

“Does it look like it?” Warlock says, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. “I’m here on my own.”

Sally gives him a crooked smile. “Me too,” she says, and there’s kindness in her voice. “My sister’s on a school trip, and mine’s next week, because we’re in different sections. My parents wouldn’t show up, obviously. They think we’re co-dependent or something. I’m like, _no, _I mean, I have a healthy friendship with my sibling, how is that co-dependency? That’s what family is for, isn’t it?”

Warlock nods, sympathetic. 

“Hey,” Sally suggests, staring at her watch. “Are you bored?” 

“Bored of what?” 

Sally gestures around them, to the almost empty hall. The kid who won third place is playing a game on their smartphone, seeming least concerned about everything that’s happening. 

“Yeah, sure,” Warlock offers. “Nothing’s really happening.” 

“Let’s swap places,” Sally suggests. “I’ll pretend to be you, you pretend to be me. You describe my picture, and I’ll describe yours.”

Warlock thinks it over.

“Only if you want to,” Sally says hastily. “I mean, you _did _win first place, and I didn’t mean anything serious by it, just that it’d be a fun way to pass the time, maybe, but of course we don’t have to if you don’t – ”

“I’m game,” Warlock says. “Just, uh, if we’re doing this. My Nanny isn’t exactly a woman, or a man. He’s nonbinary, so use gender neutral terms to describe him.” 

Sally nods, taking it at face value. “Okay. My sister’s name is Susan, but I usually call her Suze. With a Z. Our parents hate it.” 

Warlock smiles. “Let’s go, then.” 

-

At 9:15, Crowley calls Aziraphale. 

“Angel,” he says. 

“So it appears,” Aziraphale says, because Aziraphale is enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, and Crowley loves him for it. “Is everything alright, my dear?” 

“Smashing,” Crowley says, just because he can.

They’re both silent, and Crowley knows Aziraphale isn’t going to call him out on the bluff and is waiting for Crowley to say whatever he needs to say. 

“Not very smashing,” Crowley says. “I’m nervous.” 

He doesn’t say _I’m scared. _He doesn’t need to. 

“I wish you were here with me,” he says instead.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. Soft, fond, tender, caring. “My darling. You’re going to be alright.” 

“We don’t know that,” Crowley says. 

“We _do _know that,” Aziraphale contradicts smoothly. “Remember, Warlock loves you. He loves you enough to have invited you to see his artwork. Just showing up and telling him that you’re proud of him is more than enough. It’ll work out. Trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” Crowley says. He takes a shaky breath, continues to talk a little softer. “I feel unbalanced without you here, you know. It’s always been the two of us, after all.” 

“I understand,” Aziraphale says, and the way he says the words reflects the weight of his understanding; they’re heavy with empathy. “But Crowley, let’s be realistic. The boy didn’t ask for me. He asked for _you._” 

“He loves you too,” Crowley points out.

“I never sang him to sleep,” Aziraphale rebuts. “He needs his Nanny.” 

“Well,” Crowley says, holding the bag of baked goods in one hand, and his phone in the other, getting up and beginning to walk to the venue of the exhibition. “He’s got her.” 

“I wish I could be with you to tell him the truth,” Aziraphale says. “I know it’s a lot to explain, but I really think he would be most receptive if it’s you who tells him. You’ve taken such good care of him, after all. More than me, even. Practically raised him.” 

“Don’t say that,” Crowley protests. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“You could have,” Aziraphale argues. “You can, and you will, right now.” 

Crowley closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. It’s wonderful, and more than miraculous, he thinks, that they’ve gotten here. That Aziraphale can say anything whatsoever to him, and they both know that he’ll understand it, or if he doesn’t, he will clarify. That he has the calm, grounding certainty that his angel believes in him, and always will. 

“Alright,” Crowley says. “You win this round, Angel. I’m going over to see him, right now. Thank you for talking me through it. Love you.” 

“Likewise,” Aziraphale says, softly. It somehow means more than any endearment would.

-

At 9:07, to be exact, Warlock tells Sally that they need to switch back. 

“This has been amazing,” Warlock says, with a giggle, remembering the old woman who’d asked him why his self portrait looked nothing like him, and the improvisation he’d needed to do, inventing a fictional set of cousins and childhood dress up games in order to convince her. “But Nanny’s going to be here soon, and I want to show him.” 

“Your Nanny’s pronouns are he/him?” Sally asks. 

“For today, yes. He texted me,” Warlock says, waving his phone in the air for emphasis. If his hands are a little unsteady, that’s nobody’s business but his. 

Sally gives him a contemplative look, before she gently takes his phone from him. By now, he trusts her enough not to react. 

“I’m going to put my number in here,” she says. “I’m saving it under Warlock Dowling. And you, you can save yourself in here,” she hands him her phone, “as Sally Krieger.” 

Warlock keys his number in, adds a worm emoji next to Sally Krieger for good measure. “Seems fitting” he says. 

When he looks at the contact number on his phone, he’s surprised to see that she’s added a little toadstool emoji next to his name. He smiles. 

She smiles right back, but then gives him another thoughtful look.

“Warlock, are you okay?” she asks. “You look a little nervous.” 

“I haven’t seen Nanny in years,” Warlock says. “I’m scared.” 

Telling the truth had been impulsive, and Warlock usually wasn’t impulsive when it came to things like this. He found denial to be more effective, but there was something so comforting about having a friend he could talk to, a friend who _got it. _

“Oh,” Sally says. “That’s valid. Do you want a hug?” 

Warlock isn’t sure. He doesn’t hug people, on principle. There are only two people he’d consider breaking this rule for, and one of them is on the way to where he is already. 

“I appreciate it, but no thank you,” he says, politely. He does reach out and take her hand, though, and squeeze it gently, before they both walk across the corridor and stand next to their respective paintings. 

-

At 9:28, a tall, lanky, red-haired male-presenting entity opens the door to the building with enough intent that people milling around looking at art and getting in the way suddenly feel the need to move and let him pass. This, if he were to be questioned later, he would admit hadn’t even been a conscious effort. 

At 9:29, a fourteen year old boy with too-long, floppy hair, standing next to one of the most love-filled paintings in the world, is picking at his nails nervously, mostly just for something to do with his hands. He’ll hear footsteps that seem to say GET OUT OF MY WAY without actually saying anything (they’re just footsteps, after all.) He’ll turn to the entryway to see his childhood Nanny, standing there with a brown paper bag cradled in his hands, his usual sunglasses, his hair cut short and his expression uncertain. 

Later on, it will be unclear who did what, but the nanny will put down the paper bag on a miraculously empty table (that will go unnoticed, given the emotion of the moment) and his last ward, if they boy can be termed such, will run into his arms as if there’s nowhere he’d rather be. He’s getting tall enough that the nanny doesn’t need to crouch to hold him, but he’ll do that anyway, and let the boy bury his head in his shoulder. 

A 15 year old girl will gently smile at both of them, and discreetly leave the room. She’ll text a contact saved on her phone under her own name, to say, _tell me how it goes whenever ur free. no hurry. xxx. _

And if the nanny presses a kiss to the boy’s head, and a few stray tears spill into the boy’s hair, who’s going to fault him? 

Once they’re both more emotionally composed, there will be time to do all the things they’ve planned, to look at the art, for the nanny to tell the whole truth. The entire day stretches out in front of them, but for then, they live in that one moment. 

Both of them feel, somewhere internally where it’s hard to put words to emotions, that if this is all they get to have, it is enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> i was considering naming this fic "when warlock met sally" as a joke but that would've been gross and heteronormative............ there isn't (& probably will never be) anything romantic between them. i just wanted warlock to have a friend...... a friend who likes him for him, and not for his money. 
> 
> fun fact: i googled sally krieger & like..... 2 obituaries....popped up? so uh. that is entirely a coincidence and like, any resemblence to real people is ABSOLUTELY coincidental, promise 
> 
> tumblr is @ botanicallycrowley, twitter is @ gothzabini. if you want to yell in my direction, that's where it should go. much love & hope everyone has a lovely friday + a great weekend <3


End file.
